


Tomorrow

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Post: s05e22 Not Fade Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:44:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't look in mirrors, lately. Looking means seeing, and she can't take the shadows in her eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow

She knows she shouldn't be here. This isn't her kind of place, lacking the simple things like mochas and bright, glittering lights -- or the unsimple things, like _Our Beloved_ carved out in milk-white stone. It's full of noise, chattering voices that rise and fall in keys she can't wrap her mind around, shouts and cries that are tinged with joy.

One of the women is eyeing her, snap-judgments made that stain her skin and clothes as _other_. She wishes she knew what other meant, why bright blonde hair and a winsome smile aren't working like they used to -- the mask is old, ground into flesh that knows no other mold, and it is all she has.

She doesn't look in mirrors, lately. Looking means seeing, and she can't take the shadows in her eyes.

"Hi."

The voice is curious, brazenly certain that nothing can hurt her, because nothing ever has. Buffy smiles as brightly as she can and kneels down on the soft grass. It pokes through her pants, pricking her skin in a different kind of pain. "Hi," she says. "I think your mom is looking for you."

The little girl, blonde hair, brown eyes, glances over her shoulder to look at the woman who's already tarred and feathered Buffy with a single glance. "She can see me," she says, shrugging with an artlessness that's so perfect that Buffy's throat tightens over a sob. "I'm 'Lissa. Who're you?"

"I'm Buffy. And really, I kinda think you should to go back to your mom. I don't want you to get in trouble." _I don't want to get me in trouble. I don't want to_ be _trouble._

"Buffy's a weird name." 'Lissa's eyes are wide and wondering, tiny pink lips moving as she says _Buffy_ in silent awe, like candy melting sweet and sugary on her tongue. "I like it!"

Buffy's smile never falters; she learned that trick long ago, and barely notices that salt that pricks her eyelids, the darkness on her tongue. "I do, too," she lies. "Is 'Lissa short for Melissa?"

'Lissa giggles, a carefree sound that wings its way upward like a balloon set free. She leans forward, nose almost brushing Buffy's, eyes so close they become one huge brown-gray mass that studies her intently. Buffy wants to draw back and hide, afraid of this thing that is so alien to all she knows, but 'Lissa moves first. "You," she announces, conspiratorial as only a five year old can be, "need a hug."

Buffy freezes. The lump in her throat expands, cutting off words that will end up sounding more Sumerian than English, taking her breath away. It's so _simple_ , so easy, and so impossible. "Um. Maybe that's not such a good idea, 'Lissa. I don't want to scare your mom." It's a safe, practical excuse, truth that never mentions the grave-dust and moon-lit death that clings to her like a shroud. "But thank you, 'Lissa. I ... thank you."

She knows that's why she came here, of course. Where the sun is syrupy gold over emerald green grass, vibrant with life. Where sticky children dressed in all the colors of the rainbow shriek and laugh as they run from one part of the playground to the other. The mothers hover along the edges like sheep dogs, carefully watching as they chase stragglers back to the herd, shaping the shifting, moving mass of children, contained and protected.

Little arms are a shock, a small body -- so fragile and breakable, and it _hurts_ that it's what she thinks first -- presses against her own. Buffy makes a sound she can't identify as she settles flat on her behind as a tiny bundle of warmth and innocence crawls into her lap and holds on tight. 'Lissa is vibrating with life, breath that smells of cookies brushing wet against her neck, each steady beat of her heart a sob Buffy can't release, a tear she doesn't know how to shed anymore. She wants to wrap her arms around this little girl, perfectly content in a stranger's lap. She wants to touch, to be _allowed_ to touch, without fear.

She glances up when 'Lissa's mother approaches, smiling now though her eyes are wary. "Hi. Sorry about that. Melissa's a little enthusiastic, at times."

Buffy tries to find the _get away from my daughter_ in the woman's speech but can't. "I -- that's fine. I don't mind. Um. I'm not, um. I'm not going to hurt her." The words waver as she says them, the meaning stripped raw and open -- and still hidden. No mother will think of strength too much for Buffy's skinny, spindly body, or the scent of death that can't be scrubbed away. "I wouldn't."

For a moment, when 'Lissa's mother smiles, all Buffy can see is Joyce -- kindly and gentle and beloved. Missed. "I know you won't."

It's absolution where she's expected none and Buffy almost cringes. It's not what she's come here for, it's not what she needs -- but the words echo in her mind, timed to 'Lissa's steady breathing, and Buffy doesn't know what to say or think or do. She hasn't for a long time, not since she commissioned words ground into gray stone.

Then 'Lissa's head pops up and she gives Buffy a glare. "You know, when someone hugs you, you're supposed to hug back," she informs, imperious and demanding. A little princess -- if only for a moment. Uncertainty softens her expression, leaving her wistful. There's a single freckle on her nose. "Please?"

It's not something she can deny. Nodding, Buffy ignores the way she breaths deep, like giving way to a little girl is difficult; she ignores the way her arms shake, afraid to close too tight. Instead, she concentrates on the solid weight against her knees and the steady beat against her stomach, tiny shoes pressed into her back, covering her like blanket. It's _good_ , pressure forcing her to relax, to give in to the boneless touch against her.

Her eyes close, just for a moment.

A hand brushes her hair. "We're here almost every afternoon." The mother's eyes are dark, rueful and understanding as they study Buffy's face. The smile she quirks is identical to 'Lissa's, but for the weight of years, and grows as she looks at her daughter, still snugly clinging. "I was a police officer."

Buffy blinks once, then twice. She has to nod, not trusting her voice, but the mother doesn't seem to mind. The seconds drag on, and each one comes with the fear that 'Lissa will let go. "How -- "

The mother shakes her head, sitting on the bench behind Buffy, hand still on her shoulder. The weight is heavier than 'Lissa's body. "There's a look, that's all. For me, it was a nursery school. That's what I do now, actually -- went back for my degree before Melissa was born. I couldn't take it. But I think you can." She brushes Buffy's hair back, a simple gesture that should send Buffy running far far away, memories crowding too close; 'Lissa's weight makes that impossible, her tiny sigh a shield. "Like I said, we're here almost every afternoon. And you've made a friend."

She nods, and Buffy looks where she is looking. 'Lissa, golden as the sun that warms them both, tiny and beautiful, is asleep. Her face is tucked against Buffy's neck, hands knotted in cotton less pink than her skin. For a moment, Buffy feels something unlock with in her. This is why, she thinks. This is why she goes into the dark, night after night. This makes it worth it.

She'll be back tomorrow.


End file.
